


Survival Mechanism

by kehinki



Series: call me for a bad time [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bad Sex, Bottom Steve Rogers, Dysfunctional Relationships, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-10-31 20:01:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17856029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kehinki/pseuds/kehinki
Summary: What's a little attempted murder between friends?(Sequel to Lesser Beings.)





	Survival Mechanism

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to Lesser Beings, the first part of this series. Depending on how Endgame goes, I'll write a third part where they finally work things out properly (because, spoiler: they don't really work anything out here).

“I thought we had an implied truce. I gave you the phone so you could contact me if you needed me, and in turn, you _don’t_ use the phone to hunt me down.”

Tony must admit he hadn’t expected Steve’s reaction to be immediate exasperation. He’d expected surprise and concern, not irritation and a leap to the worst conclusion. Apparently, even after Steve’s handwritten apology, Steve still thought Tony would be spiteful enough to hunt him down and turn him in.

But even if that was what Steve thought of him, the familiar lines of tension in Steve’s shoulders weren’t there. He didn’t appear particularly angry, just… resigned and weary. Everything about him looked worn, from the several days worth of stubble on his face, to his overlong, dyed brown hair, to his wrinkled hoodie and sweats. And somehow, despite all that, Steve looked _good_. His skin had a sun-warmed glow and a light sheen from the humid air. And why shouldn’t he look like a tanned beach bum? Here he was hiding out in a hut near the beach, smelling of sea salt and probably spending his days sleeping and eating food off banana leaves.

When Tony didn’t speak for a long minute, Steve’s brows furrowed. “Is everything alright? Do you need…?”

“I don’t need help,” Tony said automatically. What good was Steve’s help now? Tony couldn’t even be seen with him lest they both be thrown into the Raft. “I just came to talk.”

 _Now_ Steve looked surprised. His eyes roved over Tony’s armoured form before settling on his face and it took all of Tony’s willpower not to flinch. He can still feel where Steve’s fist had landed that last time he’d had his faceplate up. “You flew all the way to the Philippines… to talk?”

Tony raised his hands, palms up. “What, you think I came here to kill you?”

“Maybe,” Steve said with a shrug, like that was the most normal line of reasoning in the world—and maybe for them, it was.

What was a little attempted murder between friends?

And speaking of murder: “Where’s Barnes?” Tony asked.

Again with Steve subverting expectations: where Tony expected a glower, he instead got a hitched breath and nothing else. “Somewhere safe,” Steve said. “Not that it’s your concern. Is that who you were hoping to find here?”

“I said I was here to _talk_ ,” Tony repeated, enunciating each word carefully.

Steve stared at him in a way that seemed to cut through the armour. He stared like he knew exactly what was going on in Tony’s mind, like he knew that Tony had no inkling of a plan when he set course for this remote little island town.

Steve took a few steps forward and Tony didn’t back away despite the flash of fear in his mind. Why the hell should he back away, or be scared?

When Steve was a breath away, so close Tony thought he could count individual eyelashes, he said, “Okay. Then talk. You got my letter, you know how I feel, so—talk.”

Tony found he couldn’t hold onto the remaining wisps of his chronically fractured self-control. He always lost himself, like in Siberia, when he could’ve left Steve as a red smear in the snow, and a part of him knew he would lose himself again as soon as he set eyes on Steve’s face.

He gently pressed his lips to Steve’s and hoped the action would speak for itself. Unfortunately, Steve lips remained rigidly closed when Tony tried to deepen their kiss.

After a moment, Tony pulled away and chanced looking at Steve’s face.

Steve was almost expressionless—there was just a little line between his brows, and that was it. “I don’t understand you at all,” Steve said.

“Me neither,” he said, and it was true enough. Maximoff had shown him Steve cold and dead and it had frightened him—it had arisen in him a visceral and primal terror that kept him awake for nights on end. Despite that, if he’d been strong enough in Siberia, and fast enough, Steve’s death would’ve been at Tony’s hands.

He wanted to retch at that thought, so to drive it away, he grabbed Steve’s face in both hands and kissed him again. Steve was more receptive this time, parting his lips and moving his mouth against Tony’s.

They eventually broke apart and just clung to each other. “Is this going to make you feel better or worse?” Steve murmured against his cheek.

“I _don’t know_ ,” Tony snapped. “Just _let_ me. I’ll figure it out later.”

“’I’ll figure it out later.’ Probably your life’s motto,” Steve said, maybe sounding a little annoyed but Tony couldn’t tell at this point. He just wanted to feel something good after feeling so bad for so long and all he could hope was that Steve wanted the same.

“FRIDAY, open up,” Tony said, and the suit folded away from him. Steve seemed surprised that he was suddenly holding real warm skin instead of cold metal. If he were being honest, Tony was a bit surprised himself, but what did it matter—if Steve wanted to fight him, he’d already proven that he was stronger than the armour. And besides: he knew Steve didn’t want to fight him.

He grabbed Steve’s face again with his flesh and blood hands and backed him into the little cot he had in the corner. Steve had no bark or bite to him this time and let Tony do what he wanted and Tony wasn’t going to waste too much effort thinking about why that might be. He nipped and licked at Steve’s lips until they were red and swollen but not bleeding; he dug his nails into Steve’s biceps but not hard enough to break skin.

Steve fell back onto the cot and Tony crawled over him, warring emotions of panic, anger, and grief vying for control in his mind. Now _Steve_ was the one under him and if that far-away look in his eyes was any indication, Steve was the one who was helpless, mentally bound by his own guilt to lie there and let Tony take what he needed.

He instantly felt disgusted with himself and made a move to get off Steve and—and just run, away from here and away from him—but before he could, Steve wrapped his legs around his waist and pulled him back down.

“I want to,” Steve said. “I want—let’s just do it. Gentle this time.”

Tony nodded stupidly. “Gentle. I can do that.” Couldn’t he?

Tony had so many questions he wanted to ask: how he broke the others out of the Raft, where they all were, where Barnes was, why was he out here alone, but for the time being he was content to let their bodies do the talking, kissing up and down Steve’s neck as Steve tangled his fingers in Tony’s hair. He brushed Tony’s hair like a cat’s and gently scratched at his scalp, so affectionate that Tony was sure Steve was imagining he was with someone else, someone like—like _Barnes_.

He wrenched Steve’s sweatpants down below his hips and began unbuckling his own jeans, mouth still latched on Steve’s throat. He knew the flare of anger in his gut wasn’t rational and he therefore couldn’t act on it. He had to be gentle because they’d both _moved on._

Steve directed him to a jar of Vaseline on the windowsill and if that was what Steve wanted, then fine, Tony had no qualms about fucking him.

Tony pushed in maybe an inch before Steve let out a hiss of pain—and what the fuck was that about? Steve barely felt pain, and he hardly ever acknowledged it. Last time he’d let Tony fuck him dry.

“Gentle,” Steve reminded him. “We’re trying something new, remember?”

“Do you want me to stop?” Tony asked, hoping the answer was no. As awkward and uncomfortable this was, Steve was hot and tight, and the sensation of the real-life Steve on his dick was enough to silence the perpetually disappointed, imaginary-Steve in his head.

“No, don’t stop,” Steve said after a few seconds, like he was deciding. Another moment passed before Steve said, “You can go deeper.”

So Tony did—he went as deep as he could, actually, knocking the breath out of Steve. Steve’s dick was clearly interested since it dribbled out more precome as Tony set the pace, slow but hard.

He dropped his forehead against Steve’s as he continued his thrusts and Steve wrapped an arm around his shoulders. This felt—it felt so fucking good, and not just the sex but being held like that, with Steve so solid and warm. This was not the Steve in his head, the Captain America of his childhood because he was no longer Captain _America_ ; Steve was a nation on his own, and so was Tony, two lonely men on their lonely islands, always at war except for just this once.

“Ow,” Steve said, and a vicious part of Tony wondered if he was being purposefully difficult; Tony was being so careful! The better part of him--that fragile, hurting, _good_ part of him--made him stop mid-thrust and take a good look at Steve’s face.

His heart sunk. Despite being hard, Steve looked— _miserable_.

“Fuck,” Tony said, slowly pulling out, his erection flagging. “Why did you—if you didn’t want—”

“I _did_ want!” Steve interrupted, trying to sit up and maybe trying to stop Tony from moving away.

“Then why are you so—why do you look like I just fucking assaulted you?!” His anger was beginning to abate as quick as it came and nausea took its place, crawling its way up his throat. What the hell was wrong with him? What the hell was wrong with _Steve_?

Steve sat up and made an aborted gesture to reach out towards Tony. “Tony, I—it’s not that I don’t want it, I’m just not sure what _you_ want. I can’t even tell what you’re feeling right now.”

Tony began buckling his pants back up and got up from the cot. Steve seemed content to just lie there looking debauched and unhappy. “You want to know how I feel?”

“Yes!” Steve said, visibly agitated. “I wasn’t lying when I said I don’t understand you! I don’t understand how you think or why you do the things you do—so of course I want to know how you feel!”

And, really, how _did_ Tony feel? He himself couldn’t get a handle on that half the time. He could say he felt resentment at Steve, and anger and hatred towards himself. But he couldn’t deny his biggest motivator, the thing that caused his mind to freeze and his thoughts to descend into the darkest parts of his psyche: “I’m mostly just scared,” Tony said, in a tone like he was talking about the weather. “That’s how I feel all the time and that’s the reason I do what I do.”

This was a bad idea. Coming here was a bad idea. He’d needed more time. This didn’t help either of them.

The armour wrapped itself around Tony like a second skin; he didn’t take his eyes of Steve the whole time. Steve gingerly pulled his pants back up and something inside Tony compelled him to ask: “Are you going to be okay?”

Steve levelled him with that stare again. “I survived you so many times already, you think I can’t survive this?”

And that was that; Tony had tried and now both of them were worse off for it. He'd gone to stitch himself back together and instead caused himself to further fracture.

Steve finally looked away and Tony turned around and left.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a bit rusty as a fic writer so concrit is welcome!


End file.
